


Who Needs Who the Worst

by milksteak



Series: Everybody Wants to Rule the World [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milksteak/pseuds/milksteak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is growing too comfortable in her role as Alayne.  Petyr reminds her of who she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Needs Who the Worst

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by "A Game of Who Needs Who the Worst" by Cursive.

She was slipping away from him.

Every time she left for a date with Harry, her skirt too short, her earrings too long, every time she laughed on the phone with Randa, whispering in her room, Petyr felt his grip on her loosen, one little finger at a time. Every time the garish engagement ring on her finger caught the light, he clenched harder only to have her shake him off. Girls - no, women - her age were by their very nature unpredictable. He still had the ugly scar on his chest to prove it.

In every other avenue, things were going better than planned. Kevan Lannister had died of heart attack the year before, leaving Cersei in charge of Baratheon-Lannister Consolidated. She was fucking things up more than he could have hoped. The merger with Tyrell Incorporated had soured when Cersei had accused Margaery Tyrell, the PR executive, with embezzling only to have the tables turn and be accused herself. Rumors told him her brother, Jaime, refused to testify in her favor in court. Tyrion Lannister had fled the country long ago, with the police still flummoxed as to how a dwarf could escape a maximum security prison. According to what he had last heard, he was overseas, partnering with the last Targaryens in China, who were now commanding the Triads. He could stay there for now, his reward for handily murdering Tywin. The Boltons now tenuously held Stark Industries, but they wouldn't for long. They had been planted there by the Lannisters and the shareholders knew it. The task of trying to rebuild the company was an unenviable one, and he knew they would fail.

His success had always been and would continue to be built upon the failures of others. It was the only thing in this world of which he could be certain: the incompetence of his colleagues, friends, and acquaintances. When Stark inevitably fell, Eyrie would step in and offer a friendly hand, which they would latch onto, remembering the friendship of their old partners. Roose Bolton might not be so accommodating, but he would be overruled. He would install Alayne and her similarity to Sansa would subconsciously put the old men at ease.

This plan necessitated her staying his. They had gotten through the thick and now that things were thinning, she was forgetting who she had been in favor of who she was now. Ironically, he had given her the name and the tools she needed to become Alayne when it had been Sansa under his thumb the entire time. It was his fault for not understanding her motivations. He still remembered that night in the bathtub, cradling her beautiful, trembling body, wet with him and her and shower water.

Alayne had just wanted to survive. Petyr had never known what it was to want to live for nothing more than the sake of living. Even as a child, he had lived for adventure and as a teenager, he had lived for Cat. Instead, he had held onto Sansa's desire. Revenge was a flavor he knew well.

His entire scheme was contingent upon her marriage to Harry. The union would solidify the nebulous trust he had worked so hard to gain among the Eyrie's board of directors. What he had not counted for was her falling in love with him.

Petyr supposed in a way, he was jealous. He was innately familiar with all his baser emotions, as that familiarity helped him to rise above them. He loved Alayne, but not in the way he had loved Cat. No, he would never again be privileged to such depth of passion. Rather, he loved her in the way any man might love any one of his prizes - he loved her as an extension of himself, as the creature he had reincarnated her into. He desired her still, and she had used that desire against him on multiple occasions. The last time they fucked had been months ago, before her engagement, and though she had come and begged prettily, he could taste the obligation on her lips. Her body was her weapon of choice, but she wielded it clumsily, with none of Cersei's wicked efficiency. This was by design on his part, as he had never fully taught her how to hone her sexuality. The remnants of her innocence and modesty made her more appealing and if he had taught her, then he would have lost control long ago. It didn't bother him to admit this. He kept his weaknesses close.

He would bring her back to him, carefully, slowly. It had been fear and the comfort of a shared secret that had won her initially. It would work again.

Petyr made sure he was home before her classes finished, lounging on the couch. Both of those things would be unusual to her; he often came back from work late, if at all, and he had hardly spent more than a few minutes in the living room, preferring his office. Her wedding invitations sat in neat, labeled piles on the coffee table, each inscribed lovingly with her bubbly hand.

When he heard her car pull in, he opened the photo album he had been carrying in his lap to a random page. Cat's face laughed at him, unlined by age or the stresses of motherhood. He stared at it until Alayne walked through the door.

"Father?" She asked timidly, book bag slung over her shoulder. When she wanted something, he was Daddy. When they fucked, he was Petyr. The rest of the time, he was father. It was a special name she gave him, just distant enough. Ned had been "papa" to her.

"Ah, Alayne. How was your day, sweetling?"

"Fine. You aren't working today?"

"No. Even I need a break, sometimes." She gave him a skeptical look. "Rarely. Come, sit."

She didn't bother to hide her wariness as she hung up her bag and went to join him, curling onto the couch an appropriate distance away.

"What's that?" She pointed toward his lap.

"Oh, this? It's a photo album I found. I forgot I had it. Would you like to see?"

Alayne nodded and scooted nearer. When she saw the subject of the photograph, she gasped.

"Is that--"

"Yes."

"Oh, she was so beautiful!"

"She was. And you outshine even her. She would be proud."

Alayne blushed prettily and then came even nearer, any hesitation forgotten. She pointed to the skinny, big-eared little boy on the page opposite, looking sullen between Cat and Lysa.

"Who is that?"

"Me."

She looked at him in disbelief for a moment before laughing.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You were adorable!"

He winced inwardly. He had never wanted to be adorable - adorable had been Cat's descriptor for him. He had always wanted to be handsome, strong, like Brandon. He had never achieved the latter, not to the extent Brandon had, but the former, he thought he managed.

"So innocent...." She muttered, dragging her finger over the wrinkled protective plastic. She reached over him to flip the page and he caught the floral scent he had bought her last Christmas. Burberry. Expensive. Harry had gotten her perfume as well, but it had lacked class.

They went through the pictures together, with him answering any questions she might have had. She laughed and smiled, but it was melancholy. Then, she stopped altogether when she came across a picture of baby Robb, his face smeared with cake, Ned and Cat behind him.

"Where did you get this?" She breathed.

"It was with your Aunt Lysa's things. Catelyn sent it to her."

They went on. Pictures of vacations, of Sansa, of Arya, Bran and Rickon. Jon was missing from all but the group pictures, but that was to be expected. The boys, hanging off Ned and Benjen's arms and legs. Cat, singing the girls to sleep. Fishing trips. First days of school. Birthdays. Recitals. Sporting events. A beautiful, big, happy family that hadn't seen the end until half of them had been picked away. He watched her carefully as her expression fell and tears collected at the corners of her eyes. Petyr gently pulled the album away from her.

"Oh, sweetling, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this out."

"No! No. I--I'm glad you did. I had...almost forgotten."

"Did you?" He asked her quietly, tucking a brown strand behind her ear.

"Yes. I'm terrible. I was so caught up in being Alayne, I let myself forget. I was so...I wanted to be happy."

"You can be happy, Sansa, but never be complacent."

He caught her chin with his index finger and tilted it toward him.

"Do you remember what you told me that first night? You told me you wanted revenge."

She nodded, sniffling, her eyes boring into his.

"Do you still?"

"Yes." She half-whispered, her voice shaky.

"Again."

"Yes."

"Like you mean it."

" _Yes_." She was firm this time, eyes blazing.

"Good girl."

He held her to him and she sank into his arms. She freely accepted the comfort he offered, burying her head into the crook of his neck. Her tears were hot against his skin. She was so near to him, her hair so soft, the quake of her shoulders heart breaking. He wanted her, even now. He wasn't one to share his bed without careful selection, despite his side businesses. It left him open to a certain vulnerability; it was important that he be seen as above other men, though he knew better himself. She might have been fooling around with Harry, but he doubted she was satisfied. Not if the yips and sighs he heard from her bedroom when she thought him asleep or otherwise occupied were any indication.

He tilted her head toward his and kissed her. At first, she leaned in. Muscle memory. Then she pulled away.

"But Harry--"

"What about him?"

"He's my fiancé."

"He's Alayne's fiancé. Right now, who are you?"

"...Sansa. Sansa Stark."

His fingers trailed along the hem of her shorts, soft as whispers. She swallowed.

"And you don't belong to him, do you, Sansa?"

"No."

"Do you belong to anyone?"

"Myself." She said it with conviction, straightening.

"Then let me do this for you."

She didn't answer. His fingers traveled upward, grazing her waist beneath her shirt. Her stomach fluttered. He wiped away the remnants of tears on her face and she leaned into his touch.

"I know you, Sansa. _All_ of you. Let me know you."

She regarded him for a moment from behind red-rimmed lids before sighing and crawling into his lap, straddling him. He kissed her again, not the questioning kiss he had given her before, but a brutal one, aimed for effect. He was a man starved and she returned in kind, fisting her small hands into his shirt. Her teeth nipped at his lips, her tongue traced the seam of them. She could say all she wanted, but he knew she missed this. It wasn't as if he had twisted her arm to convince her - she simply needed justification.

He gripped the bottom of her shirt and tugged upward. She extricated herself from him to assist in its removal, hardly noticing when he unclasped her bra as well. That came off, too, leaving her torso bare. Sansa made to kiss him again, but he halted her with a palm at her shoulder, gaze drinking in the sight of her naked breasts, just short of being too heavy for her frame, high and proud on her chest. Her nipples, slightly puffy, stood erect. Sheer perfection. He had watched Cat undress once, unbeknownst to her. Sansa had inherited a more generous bosom.

Once upon a time, she had covered herself shyly and he had needed to coax her arms away with gentle, flattering words. Not so anymore. She sat unbothered by his intense scrutiny - in fact, she seemed to bask in it. He slid lower onto the couch and buried his head between her breasts, where it was warm, dark, and soft, lightly scented. His cock strained against his pants as he laid open mouth kisses and nips against her skin, molding her flesh together and apart, remembering the weight. She ground her hips against his waist, gifting him with her shuddery breaths. With him, she was always impatient, always insisting on _more_ and _harder_.

Was she like this with Harry, or did she still play the ingenue?

"Pants off."

She stood to oblige him, unsteady on her long legs as she shimmied out of her shorts and panties together. He noted with amusement that she had shaven. Too much trouble to explain why the carpet didn't match the drapes, he supposed. Her hair had been present the last time he had seen her naked. It reminded him of her youth - but wasn't that part of the thrill of her? He stretched himself out into a laying position. She sat astride his thighs.

"Come here."

"Where?" She asked uncertainly.

He patted his chest. Brows raised, she did as he asked.

"You're awfully bare."

He drew lazy circles over her mound, feeling her wetness through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Ah...um, I thought it would be a good idea."

"And it is. But I miss the auburn."

"The auburn was just for you." She replied almost shyly.

He hooked his hands beneath her thighs and pulled her forward onto his face. She fell forward with a squeal of surprise, hands bracing her weight on the couch arm.

"What are you do--oh. _Oh_."

Her questions tapered off into gratifying whimpers as he spread her knees further apart and pushed his tongue between her lips. More than anything else, he missed the taste of her, salty sweet and musky. He dragged his tongue up and down her folds, stopping just short of where she wanted him to be. Any misgivings she had about their position were forgotten. Petyr was willingly caged by her, even more so when one of her hands moved to grip his head and shove it into her. Her grunts and cries were echoes, precious sound waves traveling through flesh and liquid to reach his covered ears.

Finally, he curled his tongue around her clit and her breathy murmurs gave way to a full, throaty moan he could feel. He was throbbing now, hard to the point of pain. He released her thigh to undo his belt and pants, freeing himself into his grip. He bucked into his own fist, pumping himself as he ate her, catching her between his lips and sucking. Her thighs spasmed at his temples and clenched. She dribbled over his chin, into his beard. Ordinarily, Petyr would never have placed himself into such a position of submission, encased by the long legs of a young woman, but the smallest part of him craved this illusion of control freely lost.

She raised herself, leaving him chilled at the lost of her heat. Then, she stood. Sansa was a masterpiece made flesh. A full body flush backlit her pale skin, dully shining under a sheen of sweat. Her chestnut hair had become mussed at some point, errant strands clinging to her reddened lips. It was the way she looked at him that struck him hardest - eyes dark and hard with her startlingly evident desire. She turned and lowered, offering him a view of the lovely swell of her backside, crowned by two elegant dimples. He reached up to guide her back onto his face, and with an almost embarrassing enthusiasm, reapplied his mouth to her cunt, parting her with his thumbs.

She hovered above him and he hardly had time to wonder at the change in her position before he felt her hands, sure and steady, wrapping around his length. Her lips pressed delicately to the head of his shaft, drawing a long groan from him that was lost in her wriggling hips. He jerked his own hips upward as her lips parted, enveloping him in the silky heat of her mouth. He could almost forget the task at hand with her bobbing up and down on his cock, hitting the back of her throat, her muscles convulsing around him. But every flick of his tongue brought a choked reverberation of pleasure from her, followed by an obscene slurp. Her saliva dripped onto the base of him. She didn't often take him in her mouth; he derived more pleasure from her happiness to please from the actual act, though that was not to say that the actual act wasn't pleasurable.

It built within him, taking new heights when she cupped his balls in her trembling hands, lightly squeezing as he had taught her to do. He would not come before her. He brought her lower, pulling lip and clit into his mouth, pushing hard into her with his tongue. Her bucking was damn near crushing his nose, but when he pressed his teeth against her, she went still for one long moment before seizing violently. She released him with a pop, holding him in her fist instead as she keened his name. Her end brought his in a crescendo of light and static, driving himself against her palm. She stole his senses, every involuntary aspect that made him human. Breath, sight, touch, taste, scent, all of it belonged to her. He heard her gasp distantly, but he was far away in that one, perfect moment where he allowed himself to be nothing more than her come, her cunt, her legs, her body. A man, nothing more, nothing less.

He returned to himself slowly, bone weakening pleasure still hanging at his peripheries. She had slid off him, sitting on her knees on the floor. White string dangled from her still parted lips and nose, smearing as she tried to wipe it away with her arm. Laughing weakly, he committed the sight to memory - she was like a cat, cleaning herself, but nothing like Cat at all - before retrieving the shirt she'd abandoned. Petyr held her head still as he dabbed at her face in loving carresses, feeling perversely more like a parent than he ever had before.

 


End file.
